


Westeros Revisited

by TheLoversOfMountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Arya, Canon-compliant up to season 5, Casual Bisexual!Arya, Drinking, Eventual Hound/Arya, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mild Gore, Older Arya, Post-Canon, Rickon isn't dead, Slow Burn, WIP Updates every Sunday, language!!, they're in love it's fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoversOfMountains/pseuds/TheLoversOfMountains
Summary: **This fic is on Hiatus and is currently Under Construction. It's a great read if I do say so myself, but when it is finished it will be quite different from how it started. For all of you who have already read it, thank you for your kudos and feedback, and I will be returning soon!**“Turn around and fight like a man, you fat fucking cunt!”Arya froze. She had not heard that voice in six years, thought she had heard it for the last time— She strode over to the door and looked out into the street.There, in all his (very drunken) glory, chugging from a goblet with a characteristic scowl on his face, stood the Hound.Arya spent the six-year Winter in Essos, where she grew into a capable warrior. Now nearly 20, she decides to return to Westeros to finish off her List. On her way to Winterfell, she stumbles across someone she thought dead. Teamed up with an old unlikely ally, what desires will be dredged up and what old demons will rear their ugly heads?





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! 
> 
> Just a few things before we get started here: Because I honestly have zero inkling how old these people are or how much time passes in this show, I’m gonna say that for the sake of the story Arya is 13 by the time she sails to Braavos for the first time, and she is now 19. Widow’s Watch is on a peninsula at the furthest east point of the North. 
> 
> Also, I haven’t watched season 6 yet (sue me) so I don’t actually know how she gets out of Braavos and under what circumstances so I’m making it up as I like. You can call it a canon divergence starting at the end of season 5 ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ . Of course, feel free to ask questions and whatnot down in the comments, I look forward to hearing from you! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Do people still even do disclaimers? I wasn’t even born when the first book came out, people. I ain’t wrote it.

_“Who are you?”_

_Arya awakens at the query, turning over in her bunk. The question is repeated._

_“Who are you?”_

_She does not lie. “Arya.”_

_“And where did you come from?”_

_“Westeros.” She continues, the game is familiar. “My family home is Winterfell. I’m the youngest daughter of a great lord, Eddard Stark. He died in battle.”_

_The switch snaps on her wrist. “A lie,”_

_“After he was executed, I fled the capital. Had to kill a stable boy. Drove my sword through his back.”_

_The switch again. “A lie.”_

_“I stabbed him in the gut. I tried to find my mother and brother, but I never did. They were murdered by Walder Frey. An outlaw kidnapped me, a man called Polliver.”_

_The switch, harder this time._

_“A man called the Hound. Sandor Clegane. He tried to sell me, but was wounded in a fight. He begged me to kill him, but I wouldn’t. I left him in the mountains to die. I wanted him to suffer, I hated him.”_

_The switch, harder still, snaps on her hand. Shocked, Arya looks up with fire in her eyes._

_“I_ hated _him.”_

_The switch again, hardest yet._

_“That’s not a lie!”_

_The switch leaves welts that burn for days afterwards._  

o0O0o

Arya stepped off the merchant ship at a port town at the tip of Widow’s Watch. The streets of the port were lined with dingy stalls selling fish and goods, loud with the bustling of people and animals. Arya's nose wrinkled at the stench of spoiled fish that seemed to permeate the air, brought on no doubt by the beating sun overhead. She looked around, trying to find the stalls with the least seedy figures guarding them. Arya bought the best horse she could weed out from the bunch of scoundrel peddlers lining the streets, and a subtle flash of a blade secured her with enough supplies for a trip across the North. It gave her little satisfaction to be back in Westeros, even after 6 years of absence, but Arya had a mission, of course—she had grown bored with the Easterly continent, and had returned to revisit the Westerosi inhabitants of her List. Cersei, Walder Frey, The Mountain, Ilyn Payne and many others had waited too long. She would ride to her childhood home, Winterfell, to see if there was anything left for her there, though she doubted it. She would accumulate information, bide her time, and eliminate every remaining member of her List. Nothing would stop her.

Swinging herself onto the great black beast she had bought herself, securing Needle’s successor at her hip, and pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, Arya started on her way, taking the cobblestone road due west towards Winterfell. Nearly twenty now, Arya had grown a few more inches since she had last been home. Her muscles had stretched as her bones did, and with the training she had put herself through she now had a quiet but undeniable strength that surprised all who made the mistake of challenging her. She had allowed her dark raven hair to grow long and now wore it in a plait that reached to the small of her back. Her face, once soft with rounded cheeks, had become sharp and angular, and she enhanced her fierce visage with a smudging of kohl around her bright, gray eyes, like they did in the sunnier states. She had filled out from a girl to a woman as she had grown, and she retained her wiry, lean fighter’s body that allowed her to be lithe and deadly in combat, but tempting to men with weak wills. And, still caring little for propriety, tempt she did.

After riding for a couple hours, the noises of civilization died down behind her and she was alone under the golden sun with her thoughts. Her horses' hooves crunched against the sandy road in a steady rhythm as insects buzzed in the summer grasses around her. Looking at the landscape of the North that surrounded her, she was surprised at how quickly it had seemed to recover since the winter broke six months ago. Bright green covered the landscape and delicate wildflowers brushed her feet as she rode by. Bright white still covered much of the high peaks of the mountain range in the distance, but down below the thawed tundra was abuzz with life. Arya enjoyed the silence of the uninhabited landscape as she rode toward her past. After six years in Essos, it was a small comfort to be surrounded by familiar flora and landscape that she had grown up with.

As dusk started to settle and she came over the crest of a hill, she spotted a spattering of houses and a tavern abuzz with activity. Deciding to stop for the night, Arya rode quickly toward the small, but quintessentially Northern, establishment. She was in no rush, and had no shortage of gold, so she wasted no time obtaining a room for herself and a hearty supper and ale in the tavern. She sat in a dark booth in the corner, more out of habit than caution, but still kept her cloak on to avoid attention. She scarfed down the stew and brown bread and drank enough ale to loosen the ache of her thighs from riding. She had just set some silvers on the table for the waitress when she heard a commotion from outside.

_“Turn around and fight like a man, you fat fucking cunt!”_

Arya froze. She had not heard that voice in six years, thought she had heard it for the last time— She strode over to the door and looked out into the street.

There, in all his (very drunken) glory, chugging from a goblet with a characteristic scowl on his face, stood the Hound.


	2. The Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here she is! Hope you enjoy :) make sure you tell me if you liked it!

The Hound swayed on his feet, but kept swearing at a large man that had started to walk away from him. Arya stared at him, still in shock from seeing the man she had left to die so long ago. Arya wondered how he had survived—though she didn’t regret leaving him when she did, once the anger and hurt of her early adolescence had faded away, her hatred of him had also dissipated, and she had sometimes wondered what became of him. She had even missed him sometimes—he had never tried to hide the horrors of the world from her, like her parents and siblings. His scowl and pessimism was better company than none, and though he had said that his travels with her were only for profit, she liked to think that she had grown on him at least a little bit. He hadn’t changed much as she studied him now—his hair was a bit longer and he seemed to have accumulated a few more scratches, but the same thick beard still covered his unburnt jaw. He had new armor, though it wasn’t as high quality as what he had procured from the Lannisters. He favored his right leg and seemed to have lost weight since she’d last seen him, but he was still large and strong like she remembered, and just as pissed off.

“Tha’s right, walk away, tell your horse-fucking mother that my stallion misses her!” Arya smirked and rolled her eyes, he had always been good at swearing at people, even when shit-piss drunk. The man he had been yelling at stopped at his last volley of profanity, turned around, and promptly caught him with a vicious hook to the jaw. The drunk Clegane crashed to the muddy street, and pushed himself up with a wild grin on his face. He spat out dark blood and took a slow, drunken swing at the man. It was easily dodged, and soon the Hound was crashing to the ground again with a punch to the eye. The man was larger than he was, and Arya could see that if the drunken idiot kept asking for it, it wouldn’t take long for the man to do some serious damage. She knew the Hound wouldn’t like it, but he had saved her life too many times for her to let him die in a stupid bar fight. Rolling her eyes, Arya marched out into the mud between the man and the Hound.

“You’ve had your fun, that’s enough.”

The man bristled, and growled, “Get out of the way, girl,”

From the ground, the Hound scowled, “Don’ need to be rescued by a gi— “

“Oh do shut up, Sandor, you drunken cunt, I’m saving your ass.” Turning back to the man, she smiled, saying, “Excuse him. Now, if you would be so kind—“

The man swung at her. She dodged him easily, and swiftly broke his nose with a jab to the face. He yelled, clutching his face, and by the time he looked up at her she had the tip of her blade hovering between his eyes. 

“Fuck off,” Arya said, almost bored. The man stumbled away, still clutching his nose. She turned to the Hound on the ground and hauled him to his feet. Once upright, he swayed, and swiftly bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach into the mud. Wrinkling her nose at his stench, she dragged him into the inn and towards the stairs.

“T’fuck are you? 

She pulled the hood off her head and stared at him with her eyebrows raised, waiting. 

At the very moment he recognized her, his eyes widened and almost instantaneously narrowed again, trying to scrutinize her through his drunken haze.

“Arya… t’fuck did you come from? How— what the fuck happened t’you?” He was still slurring his words, and his face blanched as he bent to dry heave. 

A grimace on her face, Arya pulled him up the stairs to the room she had bought, the Hound stumbling after her. Once in the room, she bolted it behind them and dumped him in the armchair by the hearth. The night was warm, so she didn’t bother with a fire before she pulled off her cloak, leather tunic, and boots, leaving on her leather leggings and linen shirt. By the time she had washed her face in the basin left by a maid, snores were emanating from the armchair. She snorted, and climbed into bed.

Sleep took a while to come. The snores from the armchair put her on edge, being so used to sleeping alone. Her head swirled with memories of the Hound—her friend’s bloody body slung over his horse, his trial by combat in the Brotherhood’s cave, his strong grip around her as he rode them away from the Red Wedding, the silent pain in his eyes as he begged her to kill him. 

In her dreams, she ran in a confused spiral both to him and from him, his dark eyes following her every step of the way. 

o0O0o

Sandor woke with a jolt and a sharp pain in his shin that was quickly replaced by pounding in his head and jaw.

“ _Fuck,”_ he muttered, holding his head in his hands. _I’ve got to stop drinking so much—where am I?_ He reluctantly opened his eyes in the morning light, squinting at the figure in front of him, presumably the person who had kicked him in the shin to wake him. He blinked a few times, and the person in front of him came into focus. It was a young woman, early 20’s, with a slight but strong build, dressed in men’s clothing and with her arms crossed over her chest. He dragged his eyes from her boots up her body, taking in her hips and bosom, her long, dark braid, up her slender neck to her sharp, fair face. Familiarity niggled at the back of his hungover brain, and when he finally reached her dark gray eyes, he was suddenly struck with recognition. Last night came rushing back in patches— _That’s why my jaw hurts—_ and he was struck with memories of those same gray eyes staring back at him as he, delirious with pain, begged Arya Stark to kill him. He grimaced. “You.”

She barked out a laugh. “Yes, me. Done ogling?” He grimaced again. 

“What are you doing here? Wha—how old are you?” _How old am I? Fuck, where’s my flask—_

“I'm 19,” she said, pointedly ignoring his other question, “Get the fuck up.” Before he could ask any more questions, she thrust his flask into his hands and strode out of the room. Sandor inspected the flask, hoping for wine, but found that the blasted girl had dumped it and filled it with water. He forced it down in an effort to stop the pounding in his head and stood stiffly, realizing that he was still fully dressed in his armor. 

He lumbered down the stairs and found her at the bottom buying enough breakfast to feed a small village. She sat at a booth in the corner of the tavern and a pointed look in his direction told him to join her. The tavern wench—pretty, mousy haired, generous in breast—brought the food and she tucked in with earnest. It was obvious that she would do no more talking until she had eaten her fill, and he was patient. Still queasy from the previous night, Sandor didn’t eat much, electing to study the girl in front of him in silence.

The first thing he noticed was her hair. When they had traveled together, it had been clipped short and was constantly dirty like the rest of her. Now, a long, gleaming braid snaked around her neck and rested against her chest, the raven locks taking on a slightly more auburn hue in the morning sunlight. There was no doubt that she had inherited the fair skin of her family, but her cheeks held a dusting of freckles and were flushed red across her cheekbones, indicating that she had been spending time in the sun. Her piercing gray eyes were even smudged with the kohl that men and women wore in the sunny south. _When was she in the south?_ Her hands, once so small, had grown long, slender fingers that were lined with callouses, and her knuckles were knobbed as if she spent a considerable amount of time punching people. Sandor was intrigued. Her clothing seemed to be more for function than fashion, though it did fit her quite well, and though she no longer tried to pass as a boy, she seemed more comfortable in the pants and tunic. She hadn’t laced her tunic all the way up the front, and it was open across her sharp collarbones, also dusted with golden freckles…

“—and I’ve come back to Westeros to finish my list.”

Sandor realized too late that she had been talking. “Come back? Where the fuck did you go? What list?”

“I took a ship to Braavos after I left you and stayed out of Westeros until the summer broke—and you know which list I’m talking about.” Of course he remembered the list of names she would say to herself before she slept, the dark look in her eyes when she had named him at the end of her list was burned in his memory. Something in his face must have conveyed his understanding, because she spoke up again—“You were supposed to be dead. What happened?” 

Sandor scoffed. “Well, wolf-girl, after you left me in the middle of east fucking bumfuck, all I could do was wait for the crows to eat me. I passed out at some point, some old lady found me and uh, nursed me back to health.” He scowled. “Guess all my prayers to the fucking Crone paid off. Headed up North, been here ever since. The leg’s still messed up, but I can still swing a sword, well enough to be a decent sellsword.”

“Why the North?” _To look for you._

“Nobody knows my face, and if they do, they don't care. And the pay’s good.”

“Good enough to blow it on booze and get beat up every other night?” Sandor scowled.

“When did you become my mother?” 

“When I found a decent sword getting the shit kicked out of him cause he was too drunk to shut his stupid mouth!” Sandor scowled again, she really had _not_ outgrown her sharp tongue.

“It wasn’t tha—“

“Yes it was that bad, you idiot. You should come with me, someone has to make sure you don't puke your brains out one of these days. Plus, I need someone to watch my back, and you owe me.”

“For what?!”

Arya stood, slapped some coins on the table and shrugged. “I don't know, seems like you should owe me for something. Not killing you?” She laughed at the sour look on his face. “Meet me at the stables in ten minutes. I _will_ leave without you.” She strode out, her boots thumping loudly on the floorboards. 

Sandor stared at the half-full bowl of porridge in front of him, contemplating his situation. Years ago, he had carted her around in the hope that he would get money for her, but by the time they were turned away from the Eyrie and bitchy Brienne showed up, he had almost been fond of her—the girl who hated him for his past but not his face, who didn’t shy away from the brutal lessons he taught her, who had stitched up the bite in his shoulder with delicate fingers. He had tried to protect her, and all he got for it was a gimpy leg and a lonely existence. Now, she had thrust herself back into his life, and who was he kidding? He'd be a fool to follow her on her path to vengeance. And yet, she had brought excitement to his life he hadn’t had in years… With a great scowl and sigh, he scrubbed his hands over his face, gulped down the rest of the porridge, and marched after her to the stables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do you see this story going? Did y'all like Hound's POV? Thanks for reading and for all your positive feedback, I love you all! Chapter 3 coming soon...


	3. The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! A quick sidetone: I like to listen to music when I write, and I have recently realized that the song Cherry Wine by Hozier is an almost exact descriptor for Arya and Sandor's relationship in general. I feel like lots of Hozier's music is his droning bass singing about a fierce and toxic woman, so fitting :))))

The early morning sun made the short tundra grasses sparkle with dew and painted the distant mountains gold. Arya and the Hound rode towards Winterfell as the summer sun warmed their backs and birds twittered morning greetings. Arya slowly relaxed atop her horse as the familiar Northern summer she had been born into seeped into her bones. The breeze lifted and tossed the fine strands of hair that framed her face, and she had to fight back a slight smile of contentment, if only to keep up appearances in front of her old companion. However, when she twisted in her saddle to look at him behind her, a wide smile spread across her face at the glower he sent towards her. 

She teased him, “Not enjoying the sun, Sandy?”

She almost laughed out loud as his scowl deepened more than she thought possible. “'m hot. Armor’s too fucking heavy for this.” Arya assessed his heavy leather and iron armor with a raised eyebrow. 

“You should try not wearing any, the swords in Braavos—“

“Don’t wear armor cause it weighs them down, yeah yeah. Remember what I said about your bloody dancing master? He’s dead, and I’m much better off with a suit of armor and a—“ 

“A big fucking sword, okay, whatever. Why don't you lighten up, eh? We’ve got a lot of road ahead of us for you to be griping already.”

“I’ll lighten up when you refill my flask, she-wolf,” he growled, nudging his horse up so they were next to each other on the trail. “Anyways, you were always the first one to complain about your poor parents, your poor brother, your poor butcher’s boy, your poor sore arse. When did you become such a ray of fucking sunshine?”

“Well, you’re such a miserable cunt, I’ve got to compensate for something.” She looked at him with a mischievous glint in her gray eyes. “And will you quit calling me wolf? I’m hardly a Stark anymore.” She huffed and looked straight ahead with a steely look on her face, but Sandor saw the flash of sadness in her big, gray eyes. A moment passed. “Aren’t you wondering where we’re going?” she asked suddenly, looking back up at him. His dark brown eyes had been studying her, and they roved over her face once before they returned to the road in front of them and he replied.

“This is the way to Winterfell, and you’ve got a list of people you want dead. Don’t need much more of an explanation. Is your baby brother on your list?” Arya looked offended.

“Who, Rickon? Of course not, are you daft?” The Hound scowled.

“Well, Winterfell’s our first stop on our mission to kill people and he’s the bloody lord of Winterfell, so you can understand my line of thought.” Arya’s head snapped towards him at that, her eyes wide.

“ _Rickon’s_ the Lord of Winterfell?”

“Seven Hells, you really haven’t been around. Yes, he’s the bloody Lord, what did you bloody well expect?”

“I _expected_ I’d have to break some skulls to give my castle back to my family, not waltz in for tea with my not-dead brother.” Arya tried _not_ to think about the fact that she would rather kill a thousand men than meet the brother whom she had not seen since he was less than half his age. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. Still, her heart pounded with the prospect of seeing the face of another one of her family members for the first time in seven years. She sighed. “No, I’ve got nobody to kill at Winterfell, not unless Cersei fucking Lannister decided to drop in. I’ll go and have my tearful reunion with my dear brother, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Sounds like a fucking plan,” Sandor said sardonically, turning his eyes back to the road.

They rode on, the sun climbing up their backs and over their heads until they had to squint as it began to descend in front of them. They traded the occasional banter as they had when they traveled together all those years ago, but it seemed somewhat easier without the defiant pride and anger Arya had unleashed on Sandor in her youth. They had the same mission, and her moral compass had become hardly different from his. 

He filled her in on what had happened since she had left; the last living Targaryen, Daenerys, had flown her dragons in from Slaver’s Bay and swiftly claimed her throne from the Lannisters. Cersei had fled to Casterly Rock where she still sat, and both Jaime and Ilyn Payne had disappeared. The White Walkers had come south as warned, bringing woe and destruction, but the magic in the Wall had slowed them down and the Dragon Queen’s dragons had produced enough fire, dragon-glass, and Valyrian steel to defeat them for the next thousand years. On the state of her List: Walder Frey had been poisoned by his 15-year old mistress, the Mountain (or what was left of him) had been consumed by dragon fire when King’s Landing was taken, and Meryn Trant had been butchered in a brothel in Braavos.

Arya had smirked at the Hound’s report of Trant’s death, but was irritated at the deaths that had been taken from her. The highlight of his report, however, was the news that Cersei fucking Lannister was sitting pretty in Lannisport just waiting for Arya’s knife in her throat. Her fingers twitched with the thought of bringing the woman just as much pain as she had brought Arya. 

As the sun got lower and lower in the sky, the pair set up camp below a large outcropping of rock that jutted out from the tundra landscape. As the Hound built a small fire and started cooking supper, Arya stretched her tired back muscles from riding. The setting sun painted the clouds spectacularly, and a golden halo appeared around the rocks jutting up in front of them. Arya sat next to Sandor but the fire and accepted the leg of rabbit he offered her, immediately digging in. Though he certainly didn’t any manners to speak of, he raised an eyebrow at the ferocious nature with which she bit into the meat. With her mouth still full, she scowled.

“Fuck off, will you? You think I’ve had a propriety lesson since the day I dumped you in the Vale?” Instead of his usual scowl, he barked out a dry laugh, biting into his own supper.

“No, I suppose you’re right, wolf-girl, you’re just as feral as the day you left.” Arya smirked, biting into the rabbit again. 

Sandor watched as Arya ate, staring at the fire. Her hair gleamed in the low light of the fire and the setting sun, and shadows bounced off the planes of her freckled face. Yes, she was still as wild as the day he met her, and something told him that she was a lot more lethal—maybe it was the various knives she kept on her belt, in her boot, and elsewhere, maybe it was the quietness with which she moved, maybe it was the coolness behind her gaze when she talked about killing her enemies. Even so, her mission didn’t seem to weigh her down, she was amiable and seemed to have shed the pain that had plagued her when she was younger. He had even made her laugh a few times—apparently his scowl was hilarious—and her stormy gray eyes had danced as they looked into his dark brown ones. She had a strange beauty, he reluctantly admitted to himself, mystery in the shadows of her face and strength and determination flowing through her wiry muscles. Sandor wondered again what had happened to her in Essos, but he knew she would never tell him unless she wanted to, and he wasn’t about to ask. Finishing his rabbit, he tossed the bone into the fire and got up.

“Taking a piss,” he grunted, and walked away.

Later, as Sandor settled on his bedroll with his hands behind his head and his sword nearby, he heard Arya speak up quietly.

“You could never see the Father in Essos.” It took Sandor a second to realize she was talking about the constellation, and he quickly located it in the star-studded sky to the west. He had a feeling she would continue, and she did not disappoint.

“I spent a while in Braavos, at the House of the Black and White.” He had heard about it in stories, a place where people went in and never came out. “I wanted to become a servant of the Many-Faced God, become No-One.” She swallowed. “I failed. They blinded me, they beat me, they stabbed me, they almost killed me.” Sandor stared at her, she stared at the sky. “I was fourteen then. I fought my way out, got passage to Pentos. I found one of my dancing master’s friends, he took me in, taught me how to fight, how to kill, how to get over what had happened to me.” She huffed. “He got killed eventually. I killed the man who killed him. I became an assassin for whoever would pay me, forgot about this place. When the winter broke, I found myself in a camp in the middle of the desert, staring at the sky, on another assignment. I looked for all the constellations my septa taught me, but I couldn’t find the Father. I thought about my father, what had happened to him, whether he would like who I was. I remembered my List, and realized that I’d rather die doing something that used to matter to me than keep on living kill to kill in Essos. So I earned my last bonus and came here.” 

Sandor had watched as she had stoically told her story to the stars, and realized that the two of them weren’t all that different, estranged from their houses and families, living on the profits of their kills. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. She was truly enigmatic, this one. Eventually she turned onto her side away from him, and went to sleep. He shut his eyes and followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! Next week we reach Winterfell!


	4. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little pre-premiere treat, a new chapter! I think I'm going to try and make my updates every Sunday. On a related note, I AM SO EXCITED FOR THIS FRIGGIN PREMIERE!!!

Arya woke to sounds coming from across the camp. She pushed herself onto her elbows, and when Sandor didn't notice her, she narrowed her eyes at him and stared as he stirred a pot over a bed of hot coals. Sandor had boiled some oats for breakfast judging by the smell, and had already packed up his bedroll and tacked his horse. He hadn't donned his armor yet, though, and his linen shirt was untied, open across the ( _very)_ wide expanse of his shoulders. Through the thick hair that covered his chest, she saw the angry bite mark from when he had been attacked during their travels. 

She remembered like it was yesterday—at first, he had acted like a wounded dog, eyes wild with pain and frustration as he refused her help to stitch his wound. However, when she finally took over for him, he had grumbled surprisingly little, even when she had to re-stitch a few parts. The gnarled wound had been unpleasant, all blood and lacerated skin, but she remembered how the pale skin and dark hair of his shoulder, always covered by layers of armor, had been surprisingly soft… Shaking herself back to the present, she roved her eyes over him again. Purple and yellow bruises decorated his unburnt jaw and cheekbone where he had been punched at the tavern, and the crease between his eyebrows had deepened as he concentrated on his cooking. His large, deft hands lifted the boiling pot from the coals and dumped the oatmeal into two tin cups. Arya’s stomach grumbled loudly. 

“You gonna stare at my ugly mug all day or are you gonna get moving?” Arya jumped at his gruff voice, a flush coming to her cheeks and a sour look coming over her face as she was shaken from her thoughts. He chuckled sardonically at her expression. “Relax, wolf-girl, stare all you want, like I care. Now get the hell up before I leave without you.” 

Arya grumbled and untangled herself from her bedroll, stretching and groaning. Sandor handed her her breakfast, which she ate quickly. She pulled on her boots and laced up her tunic, and carded her fingers through her hair a few times before plaiting it down her back. Sandor donned his leather jerkin and iron shoulder plates, fastening his heavy sword at his hip. The pair packed up their camp and stamped out the coals before they got on their way again. 

o0O0o

After a day of travel much like the previous one, Arya finally spotted the familiar towers of her childhood home in the distance. Though she kept up her nonchalant exterior, her insides were buzzing with nerves and excitement. 

“Finally,” Sandor grumbled from beside her, “I can get some fucking ale.” Arya almost laughed, she had the same exact sentiment. 

By the time the sun’s evening colors were emblazoned across the sky, the pair were riding through the gates of Winterfell. Arya could see that some of it had been damaged and rebuilt, but she was glad to see the gray wolf banners still adorning its walls. They settled their horses in the stables and sent a very wide-eyed stable hand to inform her brother of her arrival, before the two went on the prowl for some drink. 

“The last time I was here I was but a babe, Sandy, know any good watering holes?” Arya asked with a teasing lilt, knowing full well that the Hound would know quite a few. Ignoring the nickname, Sandor strode towards Dirty Murphy’s, a very dingy, but very cheap, pub on the edge of the surrounding town; Arya keeping to his heels like a pup. 

When they entered the pub, nobody recognized them, though it was probably because all the patrons were either passed out or had their face in a whore’s tits. The place reeked, the support beams sagged, and the floor was more mud than anything else, but the spirits were flowing and that was enough for the pair. Arya grabbed a corner booth as she was wont to do, and Sandor bought two enormous steins of ale. Arya tucked into hers with gusto, emerging with a full mustache of foam and a wild grin, and saw the corner of Sandor’s mouth twitch in amusement. 

“Planning on doing some whoring while I’m visiting my dear brother? Got to keep busy somehow,” Arya teased, giving him a wink. “Anyways, I think that one’s got eyes for you.” She jerked her head towards a curvy blonde batting her eyelashes in the direction of their booth. Sandor turned to look, then looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“They never have eyes for me, girl, she’s looking at _you,_ ” he said, taking a long swig from his mug, and with a start Arya realized he was right, and promptly sent the girl a wanton smile and a wink. “Besides,” he continued, sitting back in the booth with his arms crossed, “blondes aren’t really my type, and I’m coming with you to meet your brother.”

Arya frowned. “Okay, but won’t you be bored?”

“I’ve had to go through many more boring things in my life. We travel together, we kill people together, we’ll meet your brother together. Think of it as… insurance. Besides, something tells me there's a celebratory feast waiting for us.”

Arya’s stomach growled. “Fine, we both meet my brother. After another ale. 

Sandor had no arguments with that, so the pair drank and talked until the wide-eyed and beet-red stable boy wandered in to request their presence at the castle. Arya stood with confidence, her nerves eased by the beer, and followed the boy, trailed closely by the Hound.  

She had hardly entered the great hall of the castle before she was nearly tackled by a blonde-haired blur. She couldn’t help but laugh as her brother, now at least a foot taller than her, nearly lifted her off the floor with his embrace. _Why had she been so nervous? Had Rickon ever been anything but affectionate?_ Emerging from the tangle of limbs, she took in the aged face of her baby brother. He was, what, sixteen now? His face was longer, more angular, and his green eyes sparkled with excitement. His reddish-blonde curls were wild around his head, and reddish whiskers had begun to grow in around his face. He was skinny as a switch, wiry like her, but the force of his embrace had belied his strength. 

“Arya!” He exclaimed, “I’m so glad you’re home!” Arya couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

“It’s good to see you, Ricky. You’re all grown up.” He beamed at her, then looked hesitantly behind her. Taking the hint, Arya introduced her companion, “This is Sandor Clegane, we’re… traveling together.”  

Sandor, his eyes at the same height as her brother's, nodded his head to Rickon, “M’lord.”

Rickon’s eyes flicked between the two of them a couple times, then the easy smile returned to his face. “Well, come in, I’m sure you’re starving, and I had the chefs prepare your favorite.” Arya suddenly remembered how hungry she was, and she eagerly followed her brother to the feast. 

She and Sandor were seated at the main table with Rickon, and the hall was soon filled with hundreds of people eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. The Hound drank almost three whole flagons of wine, and ate at least two chickens and half a pig—Arya was starting to think he'd come along just for the food. She looked over at the happy subjects of Winterfell filling the hall, and was proud of her brother for keeping their family home alive. She told Rickon so, which seemed to please him very much, and the two spent the rest of the time reminiscing and talking about what had happened to them since they had parted, though Arya opted to leave out the part about her becoming a master assassin. It wasn’t until she saw Sandor’s head nod nearly into his plate of food that she reluctantly said her good-nights, and carted her companion off to their rooms. 

After a bit of a struggle, they reached the hallway where Arya’s old room and the one adjacent had been prepared for their stay. Straining to keep Sandor upright, Arya grumbled, “You know, it’d be helpful if you drank just a _little_ bit less, just so I wouldn't have to— _unnghh_ —carry you everywhere. You've got to be what, twice my size? _Not_ fair.” Her drunken companion simply grunted a reply as she dragged him toward his room. She carted him in, dumped him on his bed, and started unlacing his iron armor, if only because he’d grouse at her for being sore in the morning if she left it on. She yanked the plates off as he snored, leaving the rest of his clothes for him, and yanked his boots off before rolling him onto his stomach so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. 

Before she left, he reached a hand towards her and she went closer to see what he wanted. Half of his face was buried in his pillow, but the one brown eye she could see was open and bleary, and a dark-bearded corner of his mouth had turned up a little in a drunken smile. He picked up the end of her inky braid and rubbed it between his fingers, a satisfied hum leaving him. Arya’s eyebrows raised as he slurred, “Al’ays liked brunettes…” before promptly passing out. Rolling her eyes, she strode out of the room and shut the door behind her, praying to the Seven that she wouldn’t be able to hear his snores through the wall.  

o0O0o

Arya dreamt that she was still living at Winterfell, her mother and father and brother alive, her whole family happy. King Robert had never asked her father to become the Hand, and she had grown up, in the North, as she was meant to. When sunlight streamed through the window and eased her from her sleep, the familiarity of her room and bed kept the illusion for just a minute more, before she remembered all that had happened to her. The cold grip around her heart that had eased in the years since she left Westeros suddenly felt too tight, and fat tears leaked onto her furs. Sitting up and wiping her eyes angrily, Arya threw off her furs and got up, splashing water from the basin onto her face and yanking on her boots. Leaving her room, she made sure to pound on the Hound’s door and hear a groan from inside before she headed down for some breakfast. 

Arya sat and chatted with her brother at the breakfast table, stuffing herself with as much Northern sausage as possible. She knew Rickon was sad to see her go, but they both knew that she had things she needed to do, just like he had obligations to the people of the North. She promised she’d come back when her journey was over, and that seemed to lighten him up. She was filling her plate with a second helping of potatoes when she saw Sandor walk in, clearly sour and hungover, and she smirked. 

“Morning Clegane, sleep well?” Arya asked with a cheeky grin. 

Sandor winced as he sat down next to her, rubbing his temple, and growled “Stop fucking shouting girl, pass me the damn sausages.”

Arya decided to let him eat his breakfast before she bothered him again, and silently poured him a large goblet of water. Once he had eaten enough to feed a bear and his headache seemed to ebb a little bit, she turned to him again. “Rickon’s filling our saddlebags with enough food and water for the next month, and he’s giving us fresh horses for our journey. Once you’ve had enough, we’ll gather our things and head for Casterly Rock.” Sandor nodded, mouth full. 

Before long, the pair were on the road again, this time south on the Queensroad, saddlebags stuffed with supplies and bellies stuffed with food. They had debated with Rickon whether the old road would be wise to follow, with the high traffic and the risk of being recognized, but they eventually decided that it would be faster and easier, and any trouble they encountered could be easily handled by the two capable fighters. 

Arya could remember vividly the last time she traveled on the then-Kingsroad, and she knew Sandor was thinking the same thing as they rode between its well-worn ruts. She looked around at the familiar scenery, remembering Sansa’s stupid babbling about Joffrey and King’s Landing from beside her in their carriage. Arya had spent the time staring out the window and watching her direwolf Nymeria fondly as she trotted along beside them. The memories were bittersweet, now mostly bitter, and Arya pushed them out of her mind. She looked straight ahead, focusing on the road in front of them. They had a long way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and tell me what you think! If you're lucky, I might even reply to you ;)


	5. A Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one! Keep the comments coming, they are my lifeblood and I love hearing from you guys :) I especially wanna know what you think of this chapter, I'm trying to make them longer, and things start to get interesting! Hope you like it, Happy Sunday :)

Sandor’s steed had been restless ever since their midday stop. They had been riding through a heavily wooded part of the Queensroad for the better part of the day as they neared the marshy landscape of the Neck. Sandor scowled as the great brown beast underneath him danced uneasily at every noise coming from the wood, and booted him forward. _The sooner we get out of these woods the better._ Arya’s steed didn’t seem too comfortable either, and when he kept his tossing his head in frustration Arya looked over her shoulder at Sandor, a concerned look on her face. 

“They’re sensing something that we can’t,” she said, “we should keep moving, I don’t like it.” Sandor nodded, and nudged his horse forward into a trot, Arya following after him. After another few hours of skittish travel, the woods thinned and they reached the marshes of the Neck. By then, the sun was low in the sky and they rode towards an inn situated at the edge of the wood. Dismounting and tying his horse at the post, Sandor saw Arya pause, her sharp gaze trained on the edge of the thick trees, before she shook her head and dismounted as well. They  were walking towards the entrance to the inn when a great whooping shout came from the southern stretch of road.

“Sandor _fucking_ Clegane, is that you?” Sandor turned and saw seven mounted men riding towards them, in plain clothes and armor. The one who spoke was in the front, a large man with dark auburn hair and ruddy cheeks, and a smug smirk showing yellow, crooked teeth. Sandor immediately recognized him as a bannerman of the house Clegane, a man he had known in his youth. Sandor didn't like him, nor did he trust him now that his whelp of a cousin had become Lord of Clegane’s Keep. The idiot had pledged allegiance to the Lannisters, who were in defiant denial of the Dragon Queen’s reign. It was only a matter of time until Daenerys sent her dragons to burn down Casterly Rock once and for all. No doubt Cersei had little squadrons of Lannister soldiers slithering around everywhere for reconnaissance, undetected without their blood-red armor, and no doubt this was one of them. 

He cursed his stupidly recognizable face, and turned to Arya and growled, “Keep walking—“ 

“Clegane! You wouldn’t walk away from an old friend, would you?” Sandor groaned, irritation rising in him, and turned around.

“The fuck you want, Barron?” The man laughed, and dismounted, along with the rest of his men. 

“I missed you, brother, the Keep isn’t the same without your horrid face scaring the children.” Sandor scowled, he was just as much of an arse as he remembered. Barron continued, “you should come with us, I’m sure Cersei would pay a hefty sum if she got her Hound back.”

Sandor silently reached back and gripped his sword, knowing that Arya would see. “I’m sure she would, but I have a feeling she’d pay more for my head than my services. Sorry boys, not interested.” He was not surprised when Barron’s men started to spread out in the courtyard of the inn, surrounding them and cutting off any escape routes. They’d have to fight their way out. Sandor grimaced, this was _not_ the way he wanted to spend his evening, he could be full and tipsy by now. 

Barron sauntered towards them. “Sorry Clegane, but I just can’t let this opportunity pass. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the executioner’s sword is sharp, wouldn't want Cersei’s best Hound mangled by a hack job.” The man smirked to himself. “Then again, it might be an improvement.” Barron grinned a sick grin, and drew his sword. “You’ve got a choice. You and your little whore _definitely_ die now trying to fight us, or you _probably_ die later and the whore gets the best night of her life from yours truly. Seems like a pretty easy decision.” 

At that, Arya spat at Barron’s feet and declared, “I choose now,” before a flick of her wrist and a flash of silver found a knife stuck in his throat. Blood sprayed crimson on the grass and the rest of Barron’s men advanced on them with a shout.

All at once, Sandor’s vision was a blur of silver and red. He fought off strikes of three men with powerful strokes of his sword as he felt Arya at his back, holding her own just as well against the other three. As he slashed and killed one of the men in front of him, he saw one lunging at him from the side, and had to turn and separate from Arya to face the two remaining soldiers. He became increasingly frustrated as he and Arya were pushed to opposite ends of the courtyard by their opponents, too far away to offer each other any help. All he could hear was the clash of metal and the cries of the men they struck and hope that Arya could fight as well as she had said. 

As he cut down his last soldier, he heard a strangled cry come from behind him, one distinctly higher than the cries he had been hearing minutes before. He whipped around and saw Arya drop to her knees, a man dead on the ground with his guts strewn about next to him, a man in front of her falling to the ground with a slashed neck, and a man behind her back with a bloodied sword. Sandor watched her turn and block the last soldier’s blow from the ground, pushed onto her back in the dirt as she yelled in anger and pain. Sandor sprinted towards them, dread dropping into his gut as he watched the soldier kick Arya’s sword from her hand and lift his sword above his head for a crushing blow. Before the soldier could swing, an enormous white and grey wolf shot from the edge of the woods with a snarl and leaped on the soldier, ripping his throat out. _Holy fucking shit—is that her fucking direwolf?_ Sandor stopped in his tracks as the gigantic wolf turned towards him with her hackles raised, blood dripping from her fangs. From afar, he watched Arya say something to the beast, her eyes wide in shock. The wolf turned her great head toward the girl and looked at her with her large, yellow eyes before she turned and slunk back into the woods.

Sandor stared after it, dumbfounded, before he shook himself and stalked over to Arya, his eyes searching her for injury. She was still staring at the woods, her mind somewhere else. She muttered, more to herself than him, “She must have been following us this whole time, spooking the horses.” Her freckled face was pale, her gray eyes distant as she stared where the wolf had gone. He knelt and grasped her shoulders, shaking her slightly to get her attention; they could worry about the wolf later. She growled in pain, shaken from her reverie, and snapped, “ _Fucking ow!_ _My back..!”_

Sandor put his hands under her arms and pulled her to her feet, glancing at her back and seeing her tunic rent open, a line of red stretching across her body. He ripped a rag from the tunic of a nearby fallen soldier and pressed it to her back, grimacing at the loud curse and hiss of pain Arya let out. Sandor looked around. With the Lannister squadron dead around them, he knew they couldn’t stay long. Arya followed him towards their horses, and they rode hastily from the scene, Arya’s pale face set in a pained grimace. 

Fortunately the Queensroad was lined with inns and taverns, and It wasn’t long before they reached another a few miles away. As Sandor dismounted, he saw Arya’s head droop atop her steed, and when she swayed in her saddle he strode over and pulled her down before she fell from the horse’s back. Her bleary gray eyes looked up at him, confused. When he pulled his hand away from her back, it came back red and sticky, thick with blood, and Sandor realized with a jolt of panic and a scowl that the cut on her back was much worse than he had thought. Sandor strode into the inn, Arya leaning on him, and hastily bought a room and snapped at a maid to bring a basin of hot water. Arya stumbled at the foot of the stairs, and despite her weak protests, Sandor lifted her over his shoulder and carried her up the stairs and into the room. He set her on the bed with a thump and she gasped, a jolt of pain bringing alertness back to her eyes. 

“Take off your tunic, I’ve got to wrap it, staunch the bleeding,” he said gruffly, hastily shedding his gauntlets, sword, and cloak. The maid came in with the basin and some cloths, and Sandor demanded some water and food brought to the room immediately. The girl nodded hurriedly, staring at the ground in fear, and left. Arya succeeded in untying her tunic, but had barely opened it before pain flashed across her face. She groaned in frustration, warred with herself for a moment, then reluctantly lifted her eyes to his. 

“I need your help.”

Sandor moved towards the bed, and motioned for her to turn around. The leather was ripped almost completely open, so he pulled his knife and cut it from her instead; getting another was easy enough. Her bloodstained shirt was ripped too, but he decided to preserve her decency and instead gathered it at the base of her spine and pulled it out of her leggings and up to her shoulders, giving it to her to hold out of the way. He gingerly picked up her braid and placed it over her shoulder, and grimaced at what he saw. The pale skin of her back, decorated with a few silvery scars, had been sliced open. The cut was clean, but it was deep and stretched from her left shoulder down to her right hip, and was weeping sticky red blood all the way down to her trousers. 

Pulling the basin over to him, he dampened a cloth with the hot water and started at the top of the cut, cleaning away dirt and blood. Arya hissed and swore and Sandor winced, trying unsuccessfully to gentle the movement of his rough hands, but as he continued to wipe away the gore she quieted. By the time he was halfway done, she was completely silent and still, her breathing fast and shallow, and this made Sandor more nervous than if she had been swearing at him the whole time. He stopped to clean the cloth and set a hand on her uninjured shoulder, drawing it towards him so he could see her face. It was blanched white, damp with sweat, her eyelids drooping, but her gray eyes were sharp. 

“It hurts, Clegane,” she said lowly, “get it the fuck over with.”

Sandor took out his flask of water and made her drink it all before he brought the cloth back to her back. He finished cleaning the cut and moved downward, cleaning away the dried blood from the pale skin of her lower back, resolutely ignoring how soft it was. Though the cut was deep, it was clean and narrow enough to warrant only a tight dressing, stitches unnecessary. She wouldn't need to worry about stitching or ripping or removing the blasted things, though she would need to be careful to not rip open the scabbing gash. When he finished wrapping the wound, he went to the door and looked for the wench, hoping to be able to get food into Arya before she dropped dead from the blood loss.

Sandor didn’t know much about healing, but knew the first night was always the hardest, or so he’d been told a long time ago by the septa who had tended to his burned face. He almost didn’t survive the first night, he’d been told, but he had, and here he was, and he wasn't about to let the legendary Stark-bitch succumb to a stupid cut, so he pulled off the rest of his armor and his boots and readied himself for a long night of watching over her. He looked back at her. She was facing away from him at the edge of the bed with her shirt still clutched in her hand, shuddering, the basin’s water a dusky red beside her.

He took the food from the wench at the door and walked back to the bed, setting the bowl and flask on the table with the basin. Arya hadn’t moved, and he put his hand on hers and made her release the shirt she held in her hand, letting it cascade back down to settle at her hips. He pivoted her back towards him, and put the bowl of stew in her hands. She ate less eagerly than she usually did, and Sandor paced until she set the bowl back onto the table, only half of it eaten. _Better than nothing,_ he supposed, and handed her a goblet of water, which she gulped down, knowing he would make her drink it all anyways. She still shuddered, but a bit of color returned to her face, and her eyelids drooped in true exhaustion rather than anemic delirium. 

Sandor sighed in relief, and scarfed down the other half of the bowl of soup before sitting on the bed next to her, back against the headboard. “You can sleep now, girl, I’ll make sure you wake up,” he told her, and she nodded appreciatively before lifting the covers and settling on her stomach. As soon as the heavy bedclothes hit her back, however, she realized her mistake with a choked cry and jerked back upright, cursing loudly and colorfully. She looked up at him with frustrated eyes, shudderingly violently, and he knew that she would hate him for knowing, but behind her frustration he saw her pain and her anger at her own helplessness. He had felt the same after his brother had shoved his face in the flames, waiting for someone to find him, laying on the cold flagstones and feeling the chill seeping into his bones and imbedding itself there. All he had wanted then was to feel his mother’s warm embrace again.

He knew that he didn't have much in the way of words to comfort her, and the Gods knew that the last six years of working as a sellsword hadn’t taught him any newfound tenderness, but his cold old heart ached at his pain reflected back at him in her gray eyes. He knew she’d keep on shuddering without the warmth of the covers, and the pain in her back wouldn't subside anytime soon. He reached out a hand to her, and she took it warily. He drew her closer, settling her on his lap with her face tucked under his bearded chin and her back untouched except by the cool night air. This was the only thing he had to give her—his body warmth and however little reassurance his presence brought her—and he would be able to monitor every breath she took (or didn’t take) all night long. Sandor wrapped his arms loosely around her, wary of her injury, and after a beat felt her fists curl in his tunic and her face turn into his neck, cheek pressed against his bite scar. He cursed the quickening of his pulse as her breath ghosted across his neck. Her shudders gradually slowed, and by the time they stopped, she was fast asleep. 

Sandor slept and woke in intervals throughout the night, jerking himself awake each time in paranoia and each time finding Arya curled into him, sleeping deeply with a healthy flush to her cheeks. Each waking brought panic, followed by relief, then a warm feeling that Sandor tried his best to ignore, but still settled in him like a swig of fire-whiskey.

When early light streamed weakly into the inn’s window, Sandor was pulled from slumber by the feeling of fluttering eyelashes against his throat. She wasn’t awake, he realized when she didn’t move, only dreaming. He allowed himself a few more moments of the comfortable warmth of her body curled against his before he gingerly got out from under her and laid her on her stomach, venturing out into the cool morning air to find something to eat. 

o0O0o

Arya sat cross-legged on the bed, two empty porridge bowls on the nearby table, staring at Sandor’s snoring figure stretched out next to her. He had barely slept the night before, and she had seen the shadows under his eyes as he finished his breakfast and insisted that he go back to sleep. He’d been hesitant, but he himself had said Arya'd need at least the rest of the day to be able to ride again, so Arya had purposely chattered on about asinine subjects until he had groaned and agreed to sleep if only to shut her up. 

Her memories from the night before were blotchy, but she remembered sharp pain coursing through her back, dizziness, sweating, shuddering in the summer night air. She remembered the soft dripping of water as Sandor dipped cloths in the basin, the brush of his fingertips as he cleaned the slash across her back, the breeze from the open window chilling her clammy skin. She remembered exhaustion, a strong chest, warm skin, the tickle of dark whiskers, a steady pulse in her ear. Waking up in the middle of the night had been confusing, but not entirely unpleasant, which had been even more confusing. With Sandor’s strong arms loose around her and a warmth in her bones she hadn’t felt in a long time, she had barely felt the throb in her back. Looking down at her companion, she silently thanked him, knowing that tenderness was far from what he was used to. He was sleeping deeply, body facing her, arms stretched towards her over the bedspread. Part of her wanted to join him, she needed rest and she had slept better than she ever had in the warmth of his arms, but that would make things _complicated,_ and the last thing she needed was her companion thinking her still a weak, needy child, and deeming her mission not worth his time. 

So she sat at the windowsill, staring out at the landscape of the Neck to the south and beyond to the Riverlands, her mother’s old home. She wondered about the men that attacked them, wondered how the Hound knew them, wondered especially about her wolf Nymeria. Was she even hers anymore? She must have remembered her to have followed them for miles, to have saved her from certain death, but it had hardly been a joyous reunion. Perhaps she he had been hardened by the world she lived in, like Arya, blending into the background and only killing enough to stay alive. She looked out over the lands they would soon be crossing, wondering where her wolf was, where she would go next. She set her cheek on her hand and stared until her eyelids drooped and she slept again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Her eyes and words are so icy  
> Oh but she burns  
> Like rum on the fire  
> Hot and fast and angry as she can be  
> I walk my days on a wire.
> 
> It looks ugly, but it's clean,  
> Oh momma, don't fuss over me.
> 
> The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine  
> Open hand or closed fist would be fine  
> The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine."
> 
> Cherry Wine, Hozier


	6. The Neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo friends! I'm sorry I didn't post last weekend, this chapter was rather elusive and I elected to take the next week and make it actually good rather than try and put out a bad and short chapter that could potentially be detrimental to the overall quality of the story. In result, I give you a chapter 1.5x the usual length and one day early :) I hope none of you are mad at me, I promise I won't give up on this story, so long as you guys keep commenting and kudosing so I know you're into it!

Sandor sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots, noticing Arya asleep in a chair by the window. He didn’t like staying in one place for too long, but he had resigned himself to at least one day of making sure she didn’t keel over, and the sleep had been much needed by both of them. She had one elbow on the armrest of the chair, leaning forward off her back with her chin resting on her hand. Late day sun streamed yellow through the window, alighting on her eyelashes and the many locks of ebony hair that had escaped from her braid, turning them a bright auburn. They had slept through lunch and were coming up on supper, so he nudged her awake and gave her her boots and one of his extra shirts. “Going downstairs to eat” he rumbled, “can join if you want.” Her groggy eyes lit up at the prospect of food, and he waited as she gingerly pulled on her boots and the much-too-large shirt over her ripped one, tucking it in as much as she could. The pair thus descended the stairs slowly, picked out a corner booth, and supped.

Arya seemed eager to dull her pain with ale, and Sandor wasn’t about to stop her, though he did raise an eyebrow when she finished her third horn without batting an eye. She gave him her best shrug, the playful glint finally returning to her eyes.

“Feeling better, are we?” he asked, and she replied an affirmative, though the details were lost around her mouthful of food. She swallowed.

“Think I’ll be able to ride again tomorrow, but you’ll have to hold Misty’s reins for me for the next day or two, one good yank from him and I’ll split open my whole back.”

“The horse is named Misty?”

Arya scowled. “Why is that the only thing you absorbed from that whole sentence? Yes, that’s his bloody name, I took care of all the horses at Winterfell when I was a girl cause my Septa hated it, and I named him when he was born. Can you hold Misty’s bloody reins or not, you big oaf?”

“Whatever you say wolf-girl.” Sandor picked up her horn of ale and downed the rest of it, a smirk on his face. “Long as we get to Casterly Rock soon enough, been a while since I sliced up some real Lannister cunts. Maybe I’ll pay my dear cousin Craegor a visit at Clegane’s Keep while we’re in the westerlands.”

The mention of Clegane’s Keep and slicing up Lannister cunts wrinkled Arya’s brow, “When are you gonna tell me who those men were yesterday? They seemed like they knew you. 

Sandor took a swig of ale. “Aye, the cunt you stuck in the throat was Thom Barron, I grew up with him. Had no love for the bastard, all he ever did was torment me in the training yard with my brother.” He smirked. “You should have seen the look on his face when I bested him at twelve years old. Glad you offed him, if not me. The rest of them were Lannister hired swords, dressed in plainclothes but patrolling for the lioness cunt.” Arya’s eyebrows raised, and Sandor nodded. “The Dragon Queen knows Cersei won’t give up her claim to the throne easily, she’s tried to negotiate a surrender but the cunt won’t budge. She’ll send her dragons and Unsullied after her sooner or later, sooner we get there and off her, the better.” 

As the pair sat and ate their fill, Sandor expanded on his telling of the great Winter War, the sight of her youngest brother alive and well having piqued Arya’s interest about the rest of her siblings. Her brother Jon, the White Wolf, had discovered his true parentage, that of her aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen, and had mounted the great white and gold dragon beside the Dragon Queen’s great black and red one. After the war, Jon and Sansa had moved to Kings’ Landing. Jon had given up his claim to the Northern throne and made Sansa Queen in the North, and had married Daenerys to ensure the continuation of the Targaryen line and the alliance of the Northern Kingdom. Sandor suspected Sansa would return to Winterfell soon and start producing heirs of her own, as soon as she finished teaching Daenerys about southern politics and found herself a suitor of her own choosing. The crippled boy—name was Bran, Arya said—had joined his siblings in advising the Dragon Queen during the War but had disappeared North of the Wall since then. Rumors circulated about the boy, of weirwoods and visions and wargs, but Sandor had never seen him himself and didn’t like telling tales he didn’t know were true. Sandor never liked talking more than he had to, preferring to keep to the point, the mission, but Arya hung onto every word with wide eyes and he found himself going into great detail as the evening stretched on. Sandor could see that she itched to see the siblings she had long thought lost forever, but hearing of the conflict and destruction Cersei had caused in her absence caused her determination to set solid behind her cold, grey eyes. 

As the sun went down the pair found themselves still at the booth, many empty mugs of ale between them and more than a few bawdy tales told of their adventures during their time apart, tongues loosened by drink. When the waitress finally retired and Arya’s eyelids started to droop, Sandor swallowed what was left of his drink, left coins on the table, and stood to help his companion up the stairs. He was twice her size but they had drank the same amount, and the slight woman was much more wobbly on her feet, and still giggling at a dry remark he had made. She was a little drunk, but he didn’t blame her, her lacerated back likely burning and itching like hell as it started to heal. When they reached the room and saw the one bed between the two of them, Sandor stiffened in the doorway. He didn’t feel like sleeping on the floor, but knew she couldn’t. She still hadn’t mentioned anything about last night, and he wasn’t sure what she’d do now. Arya sobered and stared at it for a second, before scowling. 

“Whatever. I’ve had to share beds with smellier people. I’m tired.” She promptly strode over to the bed, toed off her boots, and flopped onto her stomach. Her muffled voice emanated from the pillow she had pushed her face into, “Blow out the candle and go to bed, Clegane, join me or don't join me, we’re riding out at first light.”

Sandor toed off his own boots, chastising his own apprehension. Months of sleeping on bedrolls across a fire certainly wouldn’t be any different to her than across a mattress. The girl hadn’t changed a bit. 

_Get a grip, Clegane._

 

o0O0o

 

Arya and her companion rode south as the first rays of morning light appeared on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched out to the west, so long that a shape could hardly be made out from the dark streaks, undulating as they followed the travelers along the ground. Around them the marshy landscape of the Neck buzzed with flies and frogs, snakes rippling beneath the surface of the shallow water. Trees, long dead, stuck out from the bogs like jagged, black fingers, and moss and algae hung thick from their scraggly branches. Mosquitos buzzed around the companions’ heads as they traveled slowly on the narrow causeway of the Queensroad, the horses’ tails whipping in earnest as the sun rose higher and higher. There were no clouds in the sky, the heavy rains of spring had passed and the summer had returned in full force, even this far north. By mid-morning the relentless heat had thickened the air with moisture and the stench of decomposition. Sweat beaded on Arya’s forehead and upper lip, and she cursed her inability to reach back and retie her hair up as she felt it stick against the back of her neck. She hadn’t been able to fix her hair since they had encountered the soldiers, and large clumps of it hung outside her braid and in her face. She’d already shed the new tunic she’d, ahem, _borrowed_ from the inn’s stable boy, and Sandor had grudgingly removed his minimal armor and jerkin as well, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows. Arya stared ahead unseeingly, her head fogged and her limbs heavy in the heat. They talked little, the beating sun discouraging any desire for conversation.

The pair had passed the ruins of Moat Cailin not long after leaving the inn. Arya knew that the once-great castle of the First Men had been a critical stronghold for the North for generations, but she had felt no comfort or familiarity with the place. The three remaining towers had stretched up, broken and crooked against the gray morning sky, deserted but for crows that flew along the rooftops and made their nests there. The place was ghastly, dark stone crumbling and covered in moss, narrow windows staring ominously out at the marshes that surrounded them. Arya was not foolish enough to not think there may have been something dark lurking in the ruins, waiting for some fool to come and claim a castle long dead. She shuddered to think of it, blessing the miles Misty’s sure steps had put between her and the place over the last couple hours.

They had passed the halfway point of the swamplands when Arya’s head began to pound from the heat and the bright sun, now directly overhead. She grunted as she turned to grab the small pot of kohl from her saddlebag before swiping more onto her eyes. Her flask was getting dangerously low, but she dared not refill it with the rancid water of the swamp. She put her hand up to shield her eyes as she looked up at the road ahead of them, then sideways at Sandor. The large man had bowed his head under the sun, sweat darkened his linen shirt around his collar and down his chest, his dark hair damp as it hung in front of his reddened face. 

“Have we got any extra water?” She asked, knowing his answer.

“Fuck you think?” he said, voice low and gravelly and devoid of the usual bite. Arya accepted the reply silently, swatting at a mosquito that landed on her neck. 

 

o0O0o

 

“Thank the fucking Gods.” Sandor said as the grasses and sparse forest of the Riverlands appeared at the horizon, growing ever closer with each step. The swamp was steadily drying up, the Queensroad pitching up to bring the pair up out of the low laying bog. Arya knew now why the North was so well defended, any army that tried to cross the bogs would only be able to traverse on the narrow causeway of the Queensroad, and the landscape was so oppressive that it would weaken even the most resilient infantry. 

They had ridden all day and into the evening to get through the Neck, knowing they wouldn’t be able to make camp until they were out of the wetlands. Arya’s mouth was dry, and she knew the horses’ were too, their large heads hung low in fatigue. As the orange evening light slowly turned to gray, they stepped from the causeway onto real soil, grass rustling underneath them. They followed the sounds of water to a small river, barely ten feet across, likely a tributary of the Green Fork. The bank of the river was at least five feet down, the rich, root-thick soil dropping off to a sandy, flat beach below them. The horses picked their way carefully down the small cliff to the water, where they plunged their muzzles in nearly to the nostril and drank deeply, their great muscular necks rippling as they swallowed. 

Arya, ignoring the pain in her back and the ache in her muscles, slid from the saddle and dropped to her knees beside her horse’s head and cupped her hands in the clear, cool water. She drank her fill, scrubbed her face and neck, and sighed as the water trickled down her back and cooled the ache of her healing cut. She looked over at Sandor, who was also on his knees on the sandy shore of the river, scrubbing his face. She watched through her horse’s legs as he, without hesitation, reached behind his neck and pulled off his shirt, plunging it into the water and rinsing the salt and grime from it. She longed to do the same, the linen shirt she had acquired at the inn was crusted with dried sweat and scraped at her neck, but she was too tired to wait for it to dry. She stood with a groan, knees popping from the stiffness, and untacked her horse, rubbing him down and rinsing his sweat off in the river before feeding him his grain for the night. She tied her steed to a root jutting out from the small cliff and set up her bedroll on the coarse sand beach. She built a small fire, more out of habit than necessity, and settled on her side on her bedroll, facing her companion on the bank. 

With heavy, half-lidded eyes and the ache in her back steadily fading, she watched absently as Sandor readied his horse for the night and tied it beside hers, his shirt drying on a rock nearby. The river bubbled quietly over the rocks and a soft breeze rippled the surface as he knelt to finish washing. The muscles in Sandor’s bare back stretched and flexed in the fading light of the evening, rivulets of water trickling down between his pale shoulder blades as he scrubbed his scalp. Scars decorated it, scratches and punctures and more than a few mottled stripes from the bite of a whip, more faded than the others. He had no shame, didn’t hide them, didn’t care what she or anyone else thought of him, that part of him had not changed. 

As she stared, Arya remembered how she had woken up with his back pressed gingerly to hers, hard and warm and snoring. It had been ages since she had woken up next to someone, and _never_ someone she wanted to spend any great deal of time with, and suddenly she had found herself, for two nights in a row, sharing a bed with the _Hound_. The unfamiliar warmth that had started in her belly the morning she had woken pressed to his chest had grown a little more when she woke that morning pressed to his back. As she looked at him now, the fire warm on her face, she found that the strange feeling was something akin to fondness for him. Ever since Arya had left Westeros, she had been alone, worked alone, killed alone. When she had encountered him at the pub for the first time, she had deemed him a perfect ally for her coming journey, a man who knew her and her mission, nothing more. Now, however, she found herself truly appreciating his companionship, even if he was grumpy, and something dangerously close to contentment crept into her heart at the knowledge that they had each others’ backs as they traveled this vast country together. 

Sandor turned around to look at her in that moment. His eyes lingered on the fire for a moment before his brooding brown gaze turned to evaluate her, sinking into her like honey on cake. Arya’s heart skipped a beat at the warm, tired look in his eyes, and she cursed it for being so fickle. 

He trudged over to her, bedroll and saddlebag in hand, and rumbled, “I’ve got to change the bandage.” Arya nodded and turned onto her stomach, pillowing her chin on her crossed arms. She heard Sandor kneel next to her and felt as he pulled up her shirt to expose the bandages. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, even in the warm southern air. “This is going to hurt,” he warned her, and when she nodded he began to peel the cloths from her cut. Arya grunted when he started, but swallowed the pain and he was soon finished, pressing new cloth to her back with deft, gentle fingers. Before he pulled away, Arya had an idea.

“Sandor?”

“Mmm,” he said absently from behind her, fingers still checking her bandages. 

“Will you fix my hair?”

“Will I—what?” He asked, caught off guard.

“Fix my hair, come on, it’s fallen out and I can’t do it myself.” She shook her head to make her point, the loose ends flying everywhere. He seemed to hesitate for a second, then huffed. 

“Fuck, wolf-girl, you need my help for everything,” he groused, but she could feel his fingers already at the tie of her braid, working her thick hair free from the plait and working the tangles out. She tolerated the occasional tug and pull as he ran his rough fingers through her snarled hair.

And then his fingers were on her scalp, scratching from her hairline back to gather all the fallen fringe from in front of her face. Tingles ran hot down Arya’s spine as his blunt nails scratched along her scalp. His hands were clumsy and unpracticed, but he did his best to be gentle. His fingertips brushed along her neck to gather the last pieces, and gooseflesh prickled wherever he touched her. Sandor huffed in frustration a few times, but soon there was a haphazard but neat plait running down her back.  

Arya thanked him quietly and he grunted in reply, standing abruptly and setting his bedroll down a few feet away from her, keeping her body between him and the fire. He laid down next to her as Arya went back to her side facing the fire, and to the sound of his steady breathing, rustling leaves, and the bubbling of the river, she fell asleep.

 

o0O0o

 

Sandor relaxed as he finally settled on his bedroll for the night, Arya’s sleeping form next to him and the fire crackling softly. Riding through the Neck was miserable, but it was necessary, and it had felt like heaven to finally get out of the saddle and wash the grime off of himself and his clothes. Sandor was bone tired, but found himself staring at the leaves rustling in the trees above him, thinking. Arya had been so exhausted that she had all but fallen into her bedroll as Sandor had knelt to wash. He’d been relishing in the feeling of the cool water on his reddened skin when he had remembered her back and realized that he should probably change the dressing. He had turned around then, just to check on her, and found, to his surprise, two bleary grey eyes staring back at him, half-closed in fatigue but still awake. A lifetime of people staring at his gruesome burns had not prepared him for her gentle, tired eyes looking at him as if he wasn’t some ugly son of a bitch. It had then occurred to him that since he had come across her in the pub she hadn't mentioned nor had her eyes even lingered on the scarred side of his face. It was something Sandor was not used to. 

He’d found his eyes wandering, to the pieces of hair that fell around her sunburnt face, her small but articulate hands, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. _Gods, but she was beautiful._ He’d shaken himself then, reminded himself that he was old enough to be her father, he’d done unspeakable things to her and her family, he’d known her since she was ten, she only wanted him for his sword and his shitty company. He’d stood and strode over to her, replacing his mask of gruffness, and replaced her bandages. He’d ignored the gooseflesh on her alabaster skin, the way she’d relaxed under his hands even as she’d hissed in pain. 

And then she’d asked him to fix her hair. He’d stiffened, asked her to repeat herself even though he’d heard her perfectly well. This was _not_ the same as changing bandages, something that would happen between any two comrades in arms. And yet, Sandor had found his mouth moving in a jibe and his hands working the tie out from her hair before he could tell himself it was a bad idea. He’d done his best to plait her hair the way he’d seen her do it, swallowing hard as she had sighed and shuddered and arousal tickled down his spine. He’d retreated as quickly as possible, and now laid here, on his back, staring at the stars. 

She’d find out eventually, probably catch him staring or doing something stupid to protect her. Gods knew she didn’t need it, especially with the fucking direwolf following her around. Sandor cursed his fickle, cold, shriveled up heart that had somehow found itself irrevocably attached to her.  
  
It would be a long journey to Casterly Rock.


	7. The Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning lovelies! How about that episode last night? One of my favorites so far!!!!! The entire sequence with Jon and the dragon had me yelling out loud. And did anyone else notice how Dany's starting to look at Jon a little differently...? And good old Sandor's back in it, as huge and grumpy as ever :) 
> 
> This new chapter was very interesting to write, it shows some new sides to our characters, though please be warned that if you could be triggered by something like a panic attack, please read with caution. It's a little angsty, old demons and such, but I hope you like it!

Arya crept along the forest floor, feet silent on the dry leaves, ears pricked to the sounds around her. Birds twittered as the sun crept up, leaves rustled in the morning breeze, creatures snapped twigs as they moved across the forest floor. The air was cool and still, mist settled along the ground, and dew dampened her boots. She'd woken just before dawn from her nightmare, as she usually did, and had left Sandor's sleeping form alone in the camp to go in search of breakfast in the wood. Arya’s fingers flexed on the hilt of the small knife at her hip as she pressed against a broad oak trunk, eyes fixed on a fat hare chewing on grass about ten feet away from her. She slowly slid the knife from its sheath, eliciting the smallest sound of grinding metal, and flipped it deftly in her fingers so she held it by its short, narrow blade. With a quick and well-practiced motion, she snapped her wrist and sent the small blade whizzing through the air to stick the hare in the eye. The creature was dead instantly, and crumbled to the forest floor. Arya straightened and strode silently over to her prize, and as she knelt to retrieve her blade, something caught her eye. 

Hidden behind trees and a large shrub, the hulking figure of a direwolf pressed itself to the ground, legs primed to lunge. Arya hadn’t seen her from where she had stood on the other side of the tree, and now she knelt at the same level as her huge head, mere feet away, holding the same creature the wolf had intended to eat. Arya's heart jumped into her throat and she froze where she was. Nymeria’s ears were pinned back and her scruff stood up straight between her shoulders, but a few moments passed and a change seemed to come over her. Her ears swiveled sideways, and she tilted her head to the side, her tail thumping against the forest floor as if she was _miffed_ that Arya took her breakfast. It was almost comical, Arya thought, the huge wolf looking at her and waiting as if she couldn’t just snatch the hare from her hands with ease.

Arya smiled a little. “Hello,” she said softly, “I’m… sorry I took your breakfast.” A loud crash and a curse echoed from the camp far behind her, and Arya whipped around and stood to see if there was any imminent danger. Sandor had probably knocked something over; for someone so coordinated on the battlefield he had an uncanny ability to forget how large he was. She smirked and turned back around, but by the time her eyes returned to where the wolf had crouched, she’d left on silent feet, off to find a different snack. Arya stood for a second, watching her slip into the trees, then trudged her way back to the camp, wiping and sheathing her knife, the hare swinging by its feet from her fist. 

The previous day, the pair had risen early from their sandy beach and traveled southward toward the Twins, where they would be able to cross the Green Fork and continue southwest toward Riverrun. The sun had been relentless, but the pair had kept their flasks full and their horses watered, and the miles had gone easily. Neither of them were very talkative, but their company was amiable and easy. When they had stopped at a small pond for lunch, Sandor’s horse had spooked and sent him headlong into the mucky water. Arya had found herself doubled over in laughter, trying in vain to ask if he was okay while gasping for air as she’d giggled. He’d looked up at her from the water, a sour look on his face, which only made Arya laugh harder until she felt a huge, wet hand close around her arm and yank her into the pond. She’d shrieked as the green water had closed over her head, and had surfaced to see Sandor emerging from the pond sopping wet, shaking the water from his hair like a dog, and looking back at her with a smirk on his face. The sun was significantly more bearable for the rest of the day. Arya allowed herself a smile at the memory.

Arya reached the edge of the wood and stared out at the grassy clearing where they had slept the previous night. They had, by chance, made their camp in the same spot where the Hound had once chewed on pig ankles while Arya had stared at the Twins below them. The matching towers still stood, grey and gloomy in the morning mist, astride the river. She had once stood on this hill and stared, terrified that she would get to her brother and mother only to have them wrenched away again. Sandor had mocked her, but he had been right. Knowing what she did now, the sight only filled her with sadness. She tried to push it down. Dwelling on the past would do her no good in this cruel world, she knew, and she was eager to put the twin castles behind her.

Arya strode out from the tree line to greet her companion, who was grumpily picking up all the pieces of his armor that were strewn across the ground, which he had presumably kicked and scattered by mistake. Arya started their fire and set to work cleaning the hare and cooking it for breakfast. They had plenty of food from Winterfell, but a fresh riverlands hare always tasted better than dried, salted meat from a saddlebag. It was bloody work, but Arya relished the distraction it gave her. 

 

o0O0o

 

When the pair set out again down the hill, the silence between them was no longer easy. Sandor could see the tension in Arya’s posture, the stiffness of her jaw, and the dread in her eyes. The towers of the Twins grew taller as they approached, and though it had been many years since the Freys had held the castle, he still felt a growing sense of foreboding with every step of their horses. The remaining Tullys of Riverrun had seized the castles from the Frey family when the Lannisters had retreated to Casterly Rock, so they would have no trouble gaining permission to cross the river from Arya’s kin, but Sandor knew that actually going through the gates was another matter entirely.

As they reached the castle, Sandor saw Arya’s form tighten even further as she took in her surroundings. When they had been here before, they had been surrounded by the camp of her brothers’ army, tents and carts and horses and men, all being destroyed and slaughtered by the Freys and Boltons. He remembered how smoke had filled the air, the scent of burning wood and flesh had filled his nostrils, and through the haze of his own fear he had clung to Arya’s limp form and tried to find a way to escape. His stomach had dropped as chants of “ _Here comes the King in the North!”_ had echoed through the clash of metal and mens’ screams. He hadn’t meant to let her see it, but soon the macabre sight of Arya’s brother, head replaced with that of his direwolf’s, had emerged from the castle. She had curled in on herself then, eyes wide but blank, limp against him as they’d ridden away. She had stayed that way until they had come across the camp of the Frey men, and with a strange quietness about her she had slipped from the saddle and murdered her first man without a stitch of emotion in her eyes. She had never been the same after the Twins, and now here they stood, at the same place that had changed her life irrevocably.

A soldier poked his head out from a window above them. “Who seeks to cross the Green Fork?”

Arya was silent. Sandor looked up, and replied, “Arya Stark of Winterfell, and her shield.”

The man disappeared into the castle. Before long, the dark, iron grate in the archway rose with the squeal and scrape of metal, allowing them passage. Sandor urged his horse forward a few steps, but when he didn’t hear the footsteps of Arya’s horse, he looked behind him. Her body was rigid, her breathing fast, and her eyes were blown wide in panic. He said her name and her eyes snapped to his, wild and unfocused. He wasn’t very practiced in speaking gently, so he spoke in terms he knew she’d at least understand.

“Come on, girl, it’s just a bridge.”

“Just a bridge,” she said in a broken voice.

“Yeah, it’s a fucking bridge. Let’s go, girl, we haven’t got all day.” Harsh, but it was the only thing that ever worked for him when the sight of flames paralyzed him. 

Fortunately, his words seemed to cut through her panicked haze. Arya swallowed. He saw her school her expression and push down the panic in her eyes to a low simmer. She urged her horse forward into a brisk walk, then a trot, then a full blown gallop. She blew past him, and he cursed as he booted his horse to catch up with her. She galloped across the bridge and through the other gate, onto the dirt road and away, Sandor close behind her. They galloped up the crest of a high hill, and as they reached the top, Arya stopped her horse. They stood there for a second, then all of a sudden, Arya slid from her saddle and retched her breakfast violently onto the grass. She stood, hunched over, facing away from Sandor for a few moments.

Then she turned around. Her eyes were as cold and hard as steel, and shuttered off like he hadn’t seen since she’d left him to die. Without a word, she hoisted herself back into her saddle and rode forward, onward to Riverrun. He followed, not saying a word.

 

o0O0o

 

The rest of the day passed in silence. Not easy, casual silence, broken with the occasional remark, but silence with such totality that Sandor wondered if Arya was even still alive atop her horse. She was still breathing, of course, but there was an absence behind her eyes. She seemed lost in her own memory, as if she was playing that night over and over in her head. It must have been easy, he thought, to push away memories when there was nothing in Essos to remind her, but being back in Westeros had woken demons she hadn’t been prepared for. He left her to her thoughts, knowing the demons that haunted her all too well.

That night, when she woke from her nightmare just before dawn with a gasp, he reached a hand over and held her wrist firmly, her pulse jumping beneath his fingers, and her shuddering breaths slowed quicker than they usually did. Instead of getting up and making herself busy, she laid back down on her bedroll, her breathing low and slow. As Sandor slid back into sleep, he thought he heard a quiet voice on the edge of his consciousness mutter,  _"Thank you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one in the books! Tell me what you think! And don't worry, we'll be back to swashbuckling partners in crime in no time!


	8. The River Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAAACK!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY!
> 
> I'm so sorry for dropping off the face of the earth you guys, this whole thing happened called college, and you could say that's a lot, so i was a liiiiiitle busy. hope you all can forgive me. i'm home on break and decided to finish what i started. this isn't the end, but its my longest chapter yet, and it will be followed by more. When? not sure. Perhaps you can persuade me to post more often with comments? :))))
> 
> things are getting a liiiitle exciting in arsan world, lookout folks

When dawn finally came the next morning, the air was cool and mist settled around them, dampening grass and exposed flesh alike. The summer’s heat had given way to a cool, wet day, and dark clouds slowed the ascension of the sun. Arya was eased from dreamless sleep by gray light filtering through the clouds, and by shudders from the breeze cooling her dew-laden skin. Sandor’s hand was wrapped loosely around her wrist, and he laid next to her, on his side facing her, still fast asleep. 

Arya had just woken, but felt exhausted. The day before had been draining, and her dreams had swirled with Robb’s gruesome dead body all night. Her only real sleep had been in the last couple hours since she had woken with a start and felt Sandor’s hand on her wrist and his presence next to her. She had remembered that she was no longer a girl alone in Essos, but home, in Westeros, with a man she trusted. It made the horror of her dreams and the sadness that filled her just a bit more tolerable.

Another breeze lifted the moisture from her skin and sent a chill through her. Arya’s aching heart and cold body wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed in Winterfell and sleep until the memories left her, but she knew, better than anyone else, that she couldn’t stop now, not when she was so close to finishing her list. The only thing she could do now was move closer to Sandor and try to rest before their monotonous day of travel. She felt the warmth emanating from his body as she pushed her face into his chest and tried to keep her memories out of her mind. Her companion shifted in his sleep, slinging an arm over her and pulling her closer, and as the warmth enveloped her, Arya waited for the cold grip around her heart to loosen and slowly slipped back into sleep.

o0O0o

The River Road was two dark brown ruts that cut through the rich, green sod of the riverlands. The pair had traveled down from the Twins to the old tributary of the Queensroad, and had followed it for several days without incident. The road was highly trafficked by farmers and fishermen of the fertile lands, who were pleasant people and would share some of their harvest for a coin or two. The pair traveled quickly, anxious to finish their mission.

A few times along the way they spotted a flash of grey fur in the grasses, gone as quickly as they saw it, but enough to remind them that the direwolf was there, ever watching, ever guarding, but never approaching.

After several days of hard riding, the fortress that was Riverrun appeared in front of them. They were getting closer to the westerlands, and though Arya didn’t want to bring attention to their whereabouts by announcing herself to her Tully relatives, the pair did agree that a change of horse was in order. Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, the pair made their way across the drawbridge and immediately went to the stable. 

The stable was dark and smelled vaguely of fish, but it was clean and the horses healthy. They settled their horses in empty stalls and quickly picked out two sturdy-boned steeds that would be able to handle the journey ahead of them. As Sandor was discussing prices with the greasy-faced stable boy, he saw Arya linger by her horse’s head and give him a mournful pat.

“Er, I’ll give you ten silvers for ‘em bof, ser,”

Sandor’s head snapped down to glare at the boy. “I’m no fucking ser, and those horses are worth at least a couple gold dragons _each_!” 

The boy’s eyes widened in fear behind his curtain of stringy yellow hair, and his voice trembled as he replied, “I-I’m sorry, ser, the Master o’ Horse has a v-very strict budget, I can’t—“

“Fuck your budget, boy, these horses—“

“Are worth what he says they are” A hand appeared on his elbow. Arya stood next to him and gave him a pointed look as he looked down at her incredulously. Her eyes turned to the boy, and immediately her whole demeanor changed. An easy smile came across her face, and her eyes softened. “You must be a smart one, keeping the Master’s books in order all the time. They probably don’t ever thank you, hm?” The boy nodded warily. Arya continued. “I know such a smart and, erm, _handsome_ bloke like you couldn’t be persuaded by someone the likes of me,” she moved closer “but these horses traveled all the way from Winterfell, and we have a long way to go, me and my, uh,” she glanced at Sandor, “uncle.” She looked at the boy with a shy smile as sweet as golden honey, and the boy’s cheeks reddened as she entered his personal space. Sandor was speechless; it was as if he was watching her pick apart the boy piece by methodical piece. Arya twirled a piece of her hair around her finger and continued her coaxing. “Please, they’ve been so good to us, and we don’t have much. Surely you can find it in your heart to throw in a little more for them.” Sandor looked on, slightly perturbed, as she leaned forward to whisper in the boy’s ear, “the Master would never know.”

The boy started stammering incoherently, and Arya’s mouth broke into a wide grin. “Wonderful!” She exclaimed, and once the boy held out the four gold dragons they had requested, she snatched them and gave him a kiss on his dirty cheek with a giggle. She kept smiling and looking at the boy coquettishly while they prepared their new steeds, and even gave him a wave as they walked out of the barn.

Once they exited the gates of the castle, Sandor turned to her with a single eyebrow raised and was met with the sight of Arya taking a swig of wine and spitting it violently onto the ground. She wiped her mouth, turned to him with disgust written all over her face, and said “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

For the first time since their reunion, Sandor laughed.

o0O0o

Sandor woke as dawn broke, feeling the familiar rise and fall of the slim back that was, as of late, being pressed to his own back in the early morning with increasing frequency. He stood to take a walk far from camp to take a piss, then sat in the golden grass to watch the sun crawl up, just for a moment before he would stride back into the camp, jostle his companion awake, and prepare for another long day of riding.

A rustle came from the grass behind him, and Sandor whipped around, a hand already on his knife. The huge head of Arya’s dire wolf emerged from the rushes, her large yellow eyes like lamps, staring at him. Sandor froze. The wolf seemed to assess him for a moment, then emerged the rest of the way from the grasses and sat on her haunches next to him, nose lofted and wriggling for new scents in the morning breeze.

Thus the wolf and the Hound sat together, ears pricked for movement from the third member of their pack, watching the golden sun emerge over the vast plains.

o0O0o

Arya had never been so sick of the smell of fish. 

As the pair had entered the pass that the River Road cut into the Western Mountains, they had fallen in with a party of several riverlandish fish peddlers on their way to the fish markets in Lannisport. Their carts were full of trout that they had obtained from the rich rivers further east, and though it was salted so as not to spoil, the smell emanating from the carts in the summer sun had Arya’s eyes watering. For days, they had ridden deeper and deeper into the mountains, and though Arya was impatient of the peddlers’ slow pace, she knew that they had to stay with them in order to pass undetected through the intensely guarded gates to the westerlands at the Golden Tooth.

Despite the smell, the mountain air was cool and dry, and the long, green rushes of the riverlands had become short cropped grass, moss and lichen among the bare rock ridges that surrounded them. Jagged peaks stretched up on either side of them, dark and sharp and lined with scraggly shrubs. Arya had never been to the westerlands, and was fascinated by the dry, sandy soil and naked cliffs that reminded her almost of the deserts and chaparrals of Essos. Sandor seemed markedly less enthusiastic to return to his homeland. 

The peddlers they traveled with were pleasant enough, consisting of several fishermen, a few of their wives, and two small children, red-headed and freckled, a girl named Ella and her little brother, Thomys. Arya liked the children; they reminded her of her own playfulness as a child—tumbling in the dirt with Jon, teasing her little brother Bran, pulling pranks on Sansa and Robb. She would laugh when they ran along the road, weaving among and between the cart wheels and horses’ hooves, staunchly ignoring the constant scolding from their mother, Magda. One day, on a whim, she swung the little boy onto the saddle in front of her. The boy asked the most curious questions, some of which Arya hardly knew the answer to herself. On these occasions, the boy would turn determinedly to Sandor and demand a more satisfactory answer, to which Sandor would always respond with a short answer and a thoroughly perplexed expression. When the sun dimmed behind them, the boy grew tired and fell asleep in Arya’s arms mid-question, his little fiery-haired head nestled against her chest. When she looked over at Sandor, he had an odd look in his eyes, which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

The following day, the sky was cloudless and the sun was harsh. There was no breeze, and sweat dripped from Arya’s forehead. The day continued like any other, but the back of Arya’s neck prickled with unease—a sensation she hadn’t felt since she was back in Essos operating as an assassin. Her instincts never failed her though, and she turned to her companion to tell him her unease. He had just taken a drink from his flask and was turning to listen when suddenly an arrow came whistling through the air from above them and stuck the flask right through, spilling water all over the ground. Sandor cursed as his steed squealed and the children screamed. 

“Get the children into the carts!” He yelled urgently, and drew his sword, reining his horse in and spinning it around to find the source of the arrow. Arya drew her own narrow sword and scanned the crags of rocks above them, eyes trained to find movement where there should be none. The riversmen grabbed their deadly sharp filet knives and arranged themselves around their carts, waiting for the next volley of attack. Wild shouting started coming from the hills on either side of them. 

Arya reined her horse over to the opposite side of the road from Sandor and yelled across to him, “Hound, what the _bloody fuck_ is going on?”

“Mountain clans of the Western Range— _fuck!”_ A stone the size of an egg struck him in the back of the head as volleys of arrows and stones flung from slings rained down on them. Stones rapped against the side of the carts and arrows fell short or barely missed. Clansmen, large, dirty, and ugly, started to charge down from the rocks they had been hiding behind, clutching clubs, faces set into snarls and yelling.

“I thought mountain clans were only in the _fucking Vale!”_ She shouted, swinging her sword and deflecting arrows.

“That’s what most people say!” Arya cut down two clansmen running towards the carts, and growled at two more rushing towards her as she swung her sword down at them. Sandor continued between labored grunts from swinging his broadsword, “The clans in the Vale are— _ugh_ —bigger, have more history, and— _ouch, fuck you—_ attack people more.”

Arya laughed at the irony as her sword sprayed blood onto the road and her knives stuck in throats, chests, and thighs. Eventually she and Sandor cut down enough of the ambushers, along with the fishermen and women with their flaying knives, that the remaining clansmen fled into the rocks. Wiping her sword and replacing it back into its sheath, Arya let out a sigh of relief and turned to her group, surveying the damage. 

Nobody had been seriously injured. One fisherman had an arrow in the leg which the others were tending to swiftly, and everyone else seemed to had escaped with minor cuts and bruises. The looters had made out with a bushel of two of dried fish, though, to the great chagrin of the riversmen. Arya slid from her saddle and made her way over to Sandor, who was sitting on a boulder nearby. As she neared him, she noted with a smirk that Magda was scolding him soundly as she treated a cut on his forehead, the children dancing around him reenacting animatedly every move he had made in the previous fight.

Ella saw her first, and ran over with wide eyes. “You were _awesome_ Arry! They had no chance against you! _I’m_ gonna learn how to fight like you someday!”

Arya looked up at her mother, who had a slightly amused, but rather sad, look on her face. She knelt so she was level with Ella and smiled. “Perhaps you will, little one. Just don’t hurry to leave home too soon.” She glanced up to a small smile from Magda, an animated shout from Thomys as he finished off his imaginary enemy, and an unexpectedly intense look from Sandor, who stared at her with his brows furrowed and a strangely studying look in his eyes. She felt her stomach clench in a way she didn’t understand.

The riversmen were anxious to get moving out of the territory of the mountain clans. They loaded the injured and the children into the carts and all but ran forward on the rocky road, Arya and Sandor following on their steeds. They traveled well past dusk, until they finally deemed a spot proper for a camp. Arya and Sandor volunteered for first watch. 

With the stars twinkling overhead and the full moon casting a grey cast on the mountain terrain, Arya and Sandor sat side by side on a boulder, high above the camp. They passed a wineskin between the two of them, and as much as she tried to take small sips, Arya could not stop her eyelids from drooping in the dim light and the warmth pooling in her belly. She leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees, sighing and rubbing her eyes. A rustling from the brush behind her made both of them stiffen and turn around, only to be met with the yellow eyes of Nymeria. The wolf approached them slowly and, after assessing the two for a second, settled onto her stomach next to Arya, her chin rested on her front paws and her eyes and ears alert. 

Arya slowly sank her fingers into the fur between her jutting shoulder blades and was met with a sharp twitch from the wolf’s ears, which relaxed only after a few seconds of listening. “Sleep, little wolf. We’ll keep watch for you,” Sandor’s low voice sounded from next to her. Not wanting to startle the wolf who was still learning to trust the girl she imprinted on, Arya opted to lean against Sandor, who put a heavy arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. 

And so, between the only two beings she trusted in Westeros, Arya’s wine-heavy eyelids drooped and closed, warmed by the alcohol in her blood and the two warm bodies pressed on either side of her. 


End file.
